


After Everything

by softestpunk



Series: (Witcher) Christmas Kisses [6]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Elves, Fluff, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-12 02:50:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16864780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softestpunk/pseuds/softestpunk
Summary: “Gwynbleidd!” Iorveth enthused as Geralt stepped into the light of the fire, his face open and his smile genuine.Geralt is reunited with an old friend.





	After Everything

“Gwynbleidd!” Iorveth enthused as Geralt stepped into the light of the fire, his face open and his smile genuine.

Peace, it seemed, had been kind to him. He was surrounded by other elves, the centre of attention--which he would have denied loving, but  _ definitely _ loved--and he looked healthier and better-fed than Geralt had ever seen him.

“Iorveth,” Geralt leaned into the hug he was being offered, wrapping his arms around the elf and squeezing tight. It’d been too long since they’d seen each other, and Geralt had been wondering what had happened to him since Iorveth disappeared in Loc Muinne.

Hearing he was safe, in Vizima of all places, under the express invitation of Vernon Roche had meant Geralt  _ had _ to make the trip if it meant seeing two old friends.

He’d come away from Roche earlier, seen that he was elbow-deep in paperwork, had a few drinks, and shared a few stories. Then Roche had directed him to where the elves were celebrating the end of their year, and asked him to pass on his regards.

“Roche says hello,” Geralt reported dutifully.

Iorveth wrinkled his nose, but Geralt got the impression they’d come to an understanding. Or maybe more of an exhausted truce.

Either way, the malice between them was gone, and that seemed to be doing Vizima the world of good. People seemed happier, and elves seemed a lot more plentiful.

“Come and sit with me,” Iorveth offered, gesturing broadly to the long bench there was a conspicuous empty spot on. “Drink. Eat! For once in our lives, we have plenty to spare.”

How was Geralt supposed to say no to an offer like that?

He settled next to him, as instructed, and immediately found himself drawn into five conversations at once, tales of his adventures being demanded despite his protests that he wasn’t much of a storyteller. All the same, he picked a few of the best, and couldn’t help feeling a little giddy, between mouthfuls of what he could only assume was elven moonshine, and the adoring way his new admirers looked at him, enrapt by every word.

Elves didn’t get out much, he figured. Not these elves, not the ones with the soot of the city ground so deep into their hair that it’d never come out. These were tame elves, domesticated ones, and it was easy to pick the few wild, bright-eyed scoia’tael among the crowd.

And Iorveth in the middle of it all, commanding the respect of his peers, and  _ smiling _ . Laughing, even. Geralt had heard him laugh precious few times, and never so earnestly as this. Never like he was really enjoying himself.

“You’ll have your choice of beds tonight,” Iorveth murmured next to him as Geralt finally managed to convince the crowd that he had no more stories worth telling, having already taken them through his encounters with the Aen Elle, and his adventures in Toussaint, and the strange figure of Gaunter O’Dimm, who he’d run into when he’d made his way back North.

Kaer Morhen had been as abandoned as he’d expected, and he’d left it with one last look over his shoulder, expecting never to see it again.

“Hmm?” Geralt asked, turning to look at Iorveth and seeing his remaining eye shining with some combination of drunkenness and mirth.

Suddenly, Iorveth’s hand was on his thigh.

Geralt’s heartbeat sped up. Not that he objected. Not that he objected  _ at all _ to Iorveth, as beautiful as any elf and as broken as Geralt himself was, and just forward enough for his long, elegant fingers to be inching their way toward where their attention would have been very,  _ very _ welcome.

Chapped lips brushed just barely against his cheek, trailing toward his ear, pressing an open-mouthed kiss against his temple. “Follow me to mine, if you like,” Iorveth murmured, right against Geralt’s ear, and then bounded away from the bench with all the grace in the world.

After a half-second’s thought, Geralt got up to follow.

  
  



End file.
